


The One Where Feuilly Saves a Cat

by Mad_Hatter_Usagi



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Cat, M/M, Mutual Pining, Partial Nudity, curse words, jumping off of a bridge, mentions of Enjolras/Grantaire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:32:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3118574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Hatter_Usagi/pseuds/Mad_Hatter_Usagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly jumps into a river to save a cat on a rainy day. Bahorel thinks that's very Disney-prince of him, but it was very dangerous and what the heck were you thinking, Feuilly?!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Feuilly Saves a Cat

Feuilly growled and stuffed his pillow over his head, trying to block out the loud banging coming from the front door of his studio apartment. But then came the bellowing. He finally rolled (quite literally) out of bed and crawled to his door, where he pried the door open and glared at his visitor. Bahorel grinned down at him cheekily, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Get up, sleepyhead. Enjy wants us there early to help set up for the rally.”

“NNNnn…it’s only eight!” He paused, “And raining!”

“Your ‘admirer’ wants us down to the Musain early to prepare. Tomorrow is the day and all that mess. Get ready.” Bahorel stepped over his friend and flopped back on the bed, squirming to make the messy sheets more comfortable against his back. Feuilly took it as a personal victory that the larger man didn’t prop his muddy work boots up on his bed too, as he’d done so often in the past.

Instead of continuing the argument, Feuilly shut the door and clambered to his feet. As he shuffled to the bathroom, he pulled his old, work-stained shirt over his head, giving the other man a peek at his torso. While the red-head was showering, he was oblivious to the fact that Bahorel was struggling with a surprising amount of lust. It had been happening for months, Bahorel beginning to find his best friend attractive, that is. And Feuilly was completely oblivious, well at least Bahorel thought he was.

In actuality, Feuilly had initiated a few conversations with his “admirer” (aka Enjolras) about what he should do about the feelings he was discovering he held for Bahorel. Enjolras patiently walked him through the feelings, suggesting to him what Courfeyrac had once suggested to Enjolras, drop tiny hints. See what he does when confronted with you in a sensual setting. Try to get him alone as often as possible. Talk about how you needed to get laid.

Sure, it had worked for Enjolras. But Grantaire was already head-over-heels for the blond man when Enjolras began to try to seduce him. Feuilly wasn’t even positive that Bahorel would be attracted to a guy. The few-seconds-too-long stares and a-bit-too-eager conversations could just be Bahorel being bored or lonely, not _interested_. Even for as long as they’d known each other (four years the next September), they hadn’t really explicitly declared their sexuality, even if they were hearty members of Les Amis, a group that had began as a student club at the local college, and had blossomed into a full-fledged organization for LGBTQA+ people.

Ten minutes later, Feuilly exited the bathroom with a pale green towel slung low on his hips. He was worrying at his lip with his teeth, wondering in the back of his mind if this was okay, if being practically naked in front of Bahorel was okay. But when he was rifling through his dresser drawers for clothes and happened to glance up into his dresser’s attached mirror, he was glad that he had done it. Bahorel was sitting up, staring wide-eyed at Feuilly’s back muscles and all of those freckles that dotted his pale skin. He was too busy wondering if he would be able to see just how far those freckles dotted down his body, if he’d ever be able to kiss every single one, to notice that Feuilly was watching him in the mirror.

Happiness bubbled up from the pit of his stomach, but he knew that then was not the time. So he gathered up his clothes and retreated back into the bathroom. He dressed quickly in a pair of black boxer-briefs, a dark green Henley with black buttons, a pair of old jeans, paint stained from his time as a house painter, not from Art school, and brown socks with a few little holes in the toes. His hair was still damp, but he didn’t really care, it was going to get rained on anyway.

Feuilly brushed his teeth quickly, and took a few moments to make sure he was ready to face Bahorel again. The buttons on his shirt were left open just enough to peek at his collarbone, which was peppered with the freckles that Bahorel was so intrigued by. His face was thankfully clear of blemishes that day. After a few seconds of messing with the pile of curls on top of his ginger undercut, he was satisfied with how they lay on his head. Then he stepped out of the bathroom and shoved his feet in his boots.

Bahorel threw his raincoat at him from across the room, beaming when Feuilly snatched it out of the air right before it hit his face. The red-head stuck his tongue out at him and allowed his friend to usher him out of the apartment, not quite missing how Bahorel’s hands pushed against his hip and lower back instead of his shoulders.

Once out of the apartment building, Bahorel tugged him close and opened an umbrella. They walked through the downpour, watching the world through a static of rain and gray fog. A mother pulled her two children along, all three carrying green umbrellas that were spotted with images of frogs and puddles. Two toddlers splashed in their bright primary-colored galoshes in front of their house. A few young adults rushed about without rain gear, looking irritated and nervous as they protected stacks of paper from the rain by tucking them into their shirts.

As they crossed the short bridge over the modestly sized river that ran through the community, Feuilly stopped and looked around, causing Bahorel to stop short and listen. The distressed mewls of a cat could barely be heard over the sound of the rain hitting cobblestone and water. Feuilly drew close to the bridge’s railing and looked over, scanning the water. His eyes found a kitten fighting the current, even if the current was slow. There was no way to reach it, the bridge was too high off the water, and the kitten was far from the banks.

So Feuilly made a quick decision.

He pulled his jacket off and shoved it at his friend, then his shirt followed. His shoes and socks were shucked off, and his pants fell around his ankles. Bahorel merely held his clothes, surprised into being completely still. And then Feuilly was jumping off the bridge, startling his friend into nearly dropping his clothes. Strangers flocked around the railing to watch Feuilly paddle toward the kitten, clutch it to his chest, and begin to swim to the edge.

Bahorel dashed across the bridge and down a slight embankment to hold the umbrella over Feuilly and the cat once he waded out of the river. A few strangers followed, holding their own umbrellas out, or clawing through their bags for something to dry Feuilly off. A little old lady muddied her loafers to hand the red-head a quilt that she had been about to drop off to the church down the road, but he obviously needed it immediately.

Feuilly dried the poor, shivering fuzz ball he’d saved and continued to clutch it close to his chest. Bahorel was still speechless, but that only remained true until the other bystanders had walked away. He dragged Feuilly down the road, making the other man stumble in his untied boots. The Irishman wore only his boots, his boxer-briefs, and the quilt, but he still managed to look positively, hilariously, affronted by the man-handling.

“You idiot. You absolute idiot.” Bahorel growled.

“What?” Feuilly squawked.

“What if the water wasn’t deep enough? What if you hit your head? What if you’d drowned? That was dangerous, you idiot, and you could still get hypothermia. You’re such an asshole. A complete dickhead.”

“Hey!”

“What kind of shithead does something like that anyway? I mean-“

“’Rel!” Feuilly scowled.

“-First it was at your place, walking around with no clothes on-“

“Oh, uh-“ He blushed.

“-Then you come out of the bathroom looking so fucking hot. What’re you trying to do to me, you bastard, I can’t hardly focus when you’re looking like you’re trying to get someone to fuck you-“

“…What? Bahorel-“

“-And then you’re jumping into the fucking river like a crazy person, to save the cutest fucking cat to ever exist! It even looks like you! Shit, what are you doing, man?”

Feuilly looked down at the cat, noticing for the first time that the little orange tabby, scruffy from being a stray and being dunked in the river, had green eyes and nicks in it’s ears. Huh, it did sort of resemble him.

“And now you’re walking down the street, practically naked! It’s like you’re trying to kill me or something!”

“BAHOREL!” Feuilly yelled, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. This made the larger man pause in his rant to finally realize just how much he’d said.

“Are you telling me,” Feuilly said. “That you’re attracted to me?”

Bahorel, although nearly a foot taller, and sixty pounds of muscle heavier, looked positively shy at the thought of continuing the conversation. But he nodded, because the determined look in his friend’s eyes said he wasn’t letting this go.

Feuilly smirked and walked proudly on, making Bahorel take a few long strides to keep up. “Good,” The red-head said. “I like you too.”

“Wait- what?”

“You think you’re the only one who likes looking at hot guys?” Feuilly said off-handedly, looking pointedly at Bahorel.

Bahorel, finally understanding, scowled. “You bastard, you’ve been teasing me all day.”

“Well you weren’t exactly screaming ‘I like guys too’ from the rooftops, and I’ve only ever seen you date girls.” Feuilly grumbled, clutching the quilt closer around him and the cat.

“You can change that, you know. You could go out with me sometime.”

“How about dinner tonight?”

“Sure. And I’ll pay,” Before the ginger could object, Bahorel powered through. “It’ll be a reward for being that cat’s hero.”

“Fine.” Feuilly growled.

**Author's Note:**

> My URL is loser-angel.tumblr.com  
> If people want it, then I'll write the reaction Les Amis have when Feuilly and Bahorel walk into the Musain.


End file.
